Ever watching
protocol, procedure, posture
(like the fair lady ‘liza),
there’s no way in
to
the in crowd
and no way
to guarantee
residence.

Retreat
is the only answer
that echoes
through the empty skull
but,
no matter,
she keeps knocking
her head
up
against the door.

Cool
to march
to your own drum
(they say),
however,
a chill is all she gets.

The moon cries
second fiddle
(the cat’s on top)
to Sol,
around whom everyone revolves.

To be
always the passenger,
dragged along,
reflecting days gone by,
is a place of
anonymity.

Yet,
she has a singular name,
engraved on the palms of a promise.
If she dares
to train her eyes
on the hands of the master
at the core of the charming quark,
she’ll find her gravity.